


dark/cold

by stele3



Category: Bandom, MCR - Fandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Forced Drug Use, Kidnapping, M/M, Violence, simulated rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the bandom_hc challenge, Prompt #543 (spoilers in notes, look at the bottom of the page for more info).</p><p>Thanks to sinuous_curve and ignipes. I should also mention that some of the inspiration for this comes from dsudis and her Numb3rs story "Missing Persons," which I have never read (I'm not even in that fandom) but about which we talked on AIM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dark/cold

**i.  
 _dark_**  
  
The first time Spencer meets the New Guy, he's blindfolded and handcuffed to a bed and he's been lying in the dark listening to deafening speed metal for two weeks. The only way he can tell the door has opened is a faint draft on his skin, a change in the cold, damp basement air. He doesn't move.  
  
The music cuts off. It's an instant physical relief, but then Raspy says, "You don't usually have to turn the music off, he knows what to do."  
  
None of them have talked to Spencer in a while and he flounders, trying to dissect the sentence; but then there's a new voice, someone he hasn't heard before, a low deep tone. "The fuck's that smell?"  
  
"Shit bucket." Shoes scuff on the floor; it's bare concrete, Spencer knows. He's fallen to it more than once. The bed shakes as someone bumps into its side. Raspy's sour-tasting thumb shoves between his lips, catching on the dry cracks. The bitter tang of a pill and Spencer struggles to lift his head, his neck muscles shaking and straining. It's worth it, though, it's so worth it when the plastic lip of a cup follows and fills his mouth with water, dribbling down over his chin. He gulps at it greedily. Earlier today, Skinny and High had a fight that Spencer could hear even over the music, and afterward High didn't come in with any food or water when he should have.  
  
There's still some left when Raspy goes to take away the cup and Spencer stupidly tries to follow it, teeth clamping down on the lip. Water slops him in the face. The heel of Raspy's hand connects with the side of his head, not hard, just a warning. Immediately Spencer lies back. He wants to ask for food but then Raspy will yell at High and High will take it out on Spencer. He's not making that mistake again.  
  
Something's gone wrong. Growl hasn't been around for days. That was when the fighting had started and they've been rougher with him than normal. Yesterday Spencer had missed the Shit Bucket and pissed on the floor a little - they've stopped unlocking Spencer's handcuffs at all, making him pee and crap off the side of the bed - and Skinny had kicked him, something Skinny had never done before and Growl wouldn't have allowed. Something's gone wrong, they've stopped unlocking Spencer's handcuffs, Growl is gone, they're all angry, and now there's a New Guy. It has Spencer on edge, not knowing what to expect.  
  
"That's it?" New Guy asks.  
  
"'less you wanna stick around and help him piss," Raspy snaps, stepping away from the bed. "He gets a Valium a day. You're in charge of it, Ma - the other guys, they'd fucking snake that shit for themselves. He gets fed twice, but y'don' gotta worry 'bout that 'less I say you do. You don' come in here 'less I say you do. Music stays on 'less I say it doesn't."  
  
"So, what, we're not moving?"  
  
"Did I say we're movin'? Did I say? Then no, we're not movin'."  
  
"The fuck you hire me for, then?"  
  
"We're _gonna_ fuckin' move, asswipe, just not yet. You'll know we're ready when - "  
  
"You say we are, yeah, got it, got it, fine. What the fuck ever, it's your dime."  
  
There's a pause. "What the fuck you lookin' at?" but Raspy doesn't sound confrontational anymore, more curious.  
  
"Can I fuck him?" New Guy asks and Spencer stops breathing.  
  
Raspy barks a laugh. "You a faggot?"  
  
"Shit you're paying me, I'm already taking it in the ass," New Guy shoots back and there's another pause that's decidedly more strained. "I'm a fucking mover, that's what you hired me for, that's what I agreed to do, and instead you've got me house-sitting. Throw me a fucking bone here."  
  
Shoes scuff on the floor, then again. "Yeah, whatever," Raspy mutters.  
  
The music cuts on again and Spencer can just barely hear it when the door shuts. High had kind of felt him up the third day while he'd been peeing, had wrapped a hand around his dick to "help" then laughed at Spencer's blanch, but Growl had gone off on him and nobody's touched him like that since. Things had been better with Growl, but Growl is gone and Spencer is alone in the basement with New Guy and he isn't ready for this, hasn't been planning ways to get through it. He tries to think if he could make himself throw up, or kick over the Shit Bucket. He knows fighting won't do him any good. Four days after they'd brought him here he'd feigned a seizure then started throwing punches as soon as they'd unlocked him. It had been a short-lived escape attempt: he'd gotten his hands free and the blindfold off just enough to know that Skinny was skinny before Raspy had laid him out with one punch. Growl had let them hit him then, and they had, all three of the others, beating his sides and arms and legs until Spencer had thought he was going to die. He didn't know how much damage the human body could take but this had felt like too much and it kept coming. He couldn't do anything with his hands locked behind his back except curl up and wait for them to decide to stop hitting him. He still hurts all over, low throb underneath the Valium. He's bound and bruised and hungry and drugged; there's nothing he can do to stop this guy, nothing.  
  
The bed moves and he can't hold back the sound he makes. It's probably lost in the sound of throaty scream-singing anyway. He tries to hold still but his body moves on its own, shuffling to the far side of the narrow mattress and he flinches as the handcuffs cut into raw skin.  
  
When something plastic and hard presses against his lip he jerks his face away. Moisture dribbles across his chin. New Guy tries to follow his mouth with the bottle - bottle, that's what it is - but Spencer twists away again. He knows he shouldn't, he's on his back with both his arms stretched above him, helpless, and the mattress had shifted a lot when New Guy sat down on it, but he can't make himself lie still and take whatever's being given to him.  
  
New Guy stops trying to push the bottle into his mouth. The song on the CD ends. It's been repeating for two weeks so Spencer knows there's a three-second pause before the next song starts. Usually those are the only times when he can breathe but New Guy is just sitting there beside him and Spencer has no idea what he's doing; he could be taking out a knife or a condom or a needle. It feels like his first day in here, when every touch, every footstep had scared him to death. He's shaking and he can't still himself, can't make himself stop pulling away.  
  
A big hand settles over his mouth and Spencer goes rigid. The mattress shifts. A wave of body heat presses in as the New Guy leans over him and then that deep, low voice says right in his ear under the screeching guitar, "I'm not going to fuck you. I'm not going to hurt you in any way. If I can stop them from hurting you, I will." Plastic touches Spencer's fingertips, trapped above his head, and he curls his fingers reflexively; the bottle's smooth surface is damp with condensation. "This is only water. Promise."  
  
The hand over Spencer's mouth smells like soap. It stays there for a long moment then slides around to cup the back of his skull, lifting his head up. The bottle's mouth rests against his lips again, not pushing, just waiting.  
  
Spencer lies still, but nothing else happens. He breathes in deep through his nose; either the bottle really is full of water or whatever New Guy has put in it is odorless. It's not like it matters, he knows he can't stop New Guy from making him drink, whatever it is, but he's not doing anything. He's just sitting there holding Spencer's head up and the bottle against his mouth.  
  
The CD changes between songs. Three seconds of beautiful silence, and he can hear New Guy breathing slow and steady.  
  
Finally, slowly, Spencer opens his lips to let New Guy pour twenty-four ounces of cold water down his throat.  
  
  
  
  
  
 **ix.  
 _cold_**  
  
When Bob gets back the snow is two-feet thick, smoothing the city's hard edges into white mounds. His skin prickles with the change in atmosphere - Nigeria had been sickeningly hot - but he stands in the street for a long moment anyway, watching the lights glitter on car-shaped hills. It's empty and quiet, as if everyone in the city had died in his absence.   
  
There are sixteen steps per flight of stairs, five flights altogether. Bob counts every one as he climbs, his shoulders bent forward and his eyes half-closed. The Nigerian job had gone about as well as could be expected: Bob hadn't had to kill anyone. He had gotten stupidly drunk on cheap liquor at the farewell celebration, and possibly babbled his sorrows onto Frankie's shoulder in between spells of vomiting. That part's a little fuzzy. Frank hadn't said anything about it the next morning but he'd bumped up Bob's flight and let him work through his hangover at 38,000 feet above the Atlantic.  
  
No one had been waiting for him when he disembarked. Brian had gotten snowed in and Jamia - Frank must not have called her and Bob isn't going to. He doesn't need a fucking 24/7 babysitter. He's just fine on his own.  
  
There's ice on the insides of his windows when Bob gets into his apartment. He switches on the overhead and goes over to beat up the heater until it coughs to life, then leaves his thick winter coat on as he wanders around turning on every other light in his apartment. The fridge contains nothing edible but that's okay, Bob's stomach still feels kind of queasy from the Godzilla hangover this morning.  
  
A pile of mail sits on the floor just inside his door, shoved under by the De Leon kid downstairs; Bob blinks at its size until he recognizes the squarish shapes of holiday cards and does the mental math. He's been gone for a week and a half. Christmas was four days ago.  
  
He stands there for a while staring at the cards. His breath puffs out in front of his face. It's probably too late to call Brian or Jamia and he's too fucking tired to figure out Nigerian time. Besides, Frank will be busy taking care of the closing paperwork, ensuring that they actually get paid, all of that stuff that Bob should be doing, too. His therapist gave him an off-hours number to call for emergencies, but Bob isn't sure this counts. He's not ODing or wandering naked in the streets or contemplating suicide, he's just standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, staring at a bunch of greeting cards on the floor at god-only-knows-what o'clock at night. That icy feeling is back in his gut, except now it's a fist, closing in tight.  
  
The front door cracks open abruptly. Bob twitches as Spencer steps right into his apartment.  
  
He stops near the door, one hand still on the knob. "Hey," he says after a moment. "I knocked, but you didn't answer."  
  
Bob stares at him. Spencer's wearing a thick winter coat and a scarf. The cut of his clothes screams money, all neat lines and double stitching, what Bob's mom would have called _put together_. Even his stubble looks orderly. He looks unreal, like something out of an Abercrombie  & Fitch catalogue, as though Bob had just conjured him with his own mind. In which case that call to the therapist probably should have happened a while ago.  
  
"Can I come in?" Spencer asks.  
  
Bob shakes himself, trying to pull out of the fog in his head. "Yeah. Yes. You, uh - you want something to drink?"  
  
"Whaddya got?"  
  
"Uh. Water. Sorry, I just got back from a trip."  
  
"Water's fine. Where'd you go?" Spencer moves further into the kitchen, stepping carefully over the pile of mail on the floor. Bob watches him out of the corner of his eye as he fumbles in the cabinets for a non-dusty glass.  
  
"Africa. Nigeria. There were pirates on a yacht."  
  
"Sounds exciting." Shrugging off the coat, Spencer unwinds the scarf from around his neck and puts both down on Bob's table. Underneath he's wearing wrinkled sweatpants and a worn hoodie - his sleepclothes, Bob realizes with a jolt. Spencer accepts the glass that Bob hands to him. "Thank you. Do you always keep it this cold, or just when I'm around?"  
  
"No, it's. I just got home and put the heater on." Bob's brain, stumbling and panting, catches up. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Spencer slants him a look. The back of Bob's neck prickles. "I paid the kid downstairs forty bucks to text me when you got back. How was your Christmas?"  
  
"My - what?"  
  
"Your Christmas," Spencer says slowly. "Or your Hannukah, Kwanza, Yule, or alternative winter holiday. How was it?" He takes a perfunctory sip of water.  
  
The little Brian voice inside Bob's head is screaming at him to jump out a window while he still can. There's something very wrong here, but Bob is still so muddled that he can't figure out what. "It was good. I mean - I was in Nigeria. So...yeah, hot."  
  
"That must have been tough, being away from your family for the holidays."  
  
"No, uh - my dad split when I was twelve and Mom died a few years back."  
  
"So it's just you and Jamia, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," Bob says.  
  
Spencer throws his glass at Bob's head.  
  
Only a lifetime of honed reflexes saves Bob from getting beaned in the head. He throws up an arm to knock the glass away and then he gets beaned anyways, because Spencer's darted forward and swung. His fist connects with Bob's cheekbone and Bob wobbles sideways, bouncing on one foot to keep his balance before losing it and tumbling to the kitchen floor. The tile shakes with the force of his impact and Spencer's footsteps as he turns and storms out of the apartment, slamming the door hard enough that it rebounds, hanging open.  
  
Everything's silent. Out in the hall, a door opens and someone yells a garbled protest. They wait for a response then, not getting any, shut their door again.  
  
  
  
  


> ((  
>  _adeen._
> 
> It's fucking freezing in the room. That's not hyperbole, either: there are ice slicks in the carpet, spills that, long, abandoned, have solidified into small, dark, shiny patches in the carpet. It's a good bet that some of them are alcohol-based, too, which means that it's _really_ fucking freezing in here.
> 
> Bob sits with his back to the headboard, his legs drawn up under the blankets in front of him. The other side of the bed is mussed and empty. He'd woken up alone about half an hour ago, but he can wait. His head swims and his stomach cramps with too much alcohol and not enough food, but he makes no move to leave the bed. He's waiting.
> 
> By now he knows what to expect, how this will go.
> 
> ))

  
  
  
  
  
  
**ii.  
 _dark_**  
  
Skinny has a cold. Spencer can hear him coughing upstairs. High is hardly around, and when he is he reeks of paint thinner. Raspy comes and goes. There are more arguments and from what little Spencer can hear, Growl is dead. Growl was clearly the brains of the operation and without him -  
  
He thinks they're trying to decide what to do with him. He's not sure why it's taking so long.  
  
New Guy brings him more water, and cereal bars. Whenever he comes into the room he turns the volume down a few notches and touches Spencer's left ankle right away, puts his fingertips in the same spot every time and holds them there for five seconds. If he's got food he'll touch Spencer's shoulder and wait until Spencer has rolled onto his side so that he can eat without choking. High has taken to chucking an opened Lunchables platter on the bed beside Spencer and letting him figure out how to get ahold of it with his teeth and dump the contents out onto the sheets, chasing down the crackers and slices of cheese with his mouth; New Guy, though, sits with him and patiently holds the cereal bars while Spencer takes bite after bite from his fingers. If he's got water he'll touch Spencer's cheek then slide a palm around to hold the back of his skull while he drinks.  
  
About the second or third time he brings Spencer water, New Guy leans in and says, "Don't think this is your kind of music."  
  
Spencer twitches at the proximity and struggles to think of a response. It barely matters; when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a rusty squeak. He swallows, and shakes his head.  
  
"Me neither." There's the crinkle of plastic as New Guy picks up the cereal bar wrappers, and then he's getting up from the bed and walking out, leaving Spencer alone again.  
  
Next time New Guy comes in, Spencer - who has been quietly talking to himself all night, running through his options - says in a rush, "I'm pretty partial to the Beatles, just, if you've got any." It still sounds hoarse. He can barely hear himself over the music.  
  
New Guy pauses with his hand still on Spencer's ankle. Spencer bites at the inside of his dry mouth when he doesn't respond right away, but then New Guy comes up to sit on the bed and touches his shoulder. Spencer slowly rolls onto his side, facing him.  
  
"Think I left my White Album in the van," New Guy says as he unwraps the bar and taps it gently against Spencer's lips.  
  
Spencer's hungry but instead of taking a bite he says, "I never liked that one. I mean, it's - it's the Beatles, so I like it but it's not Revolver, you know?" He tries to breathe steadily but it's hard. He's not scared, exactly, but his heart is pounding. High, when he's high, will ramble at him about whatever fucked-up trips he's had recently, but he never waits for or probably even wants a reply, so Spencer never does.  
  
There's another pause, shorter this time. "Can we agree that Sgt. Pepper is way too clever for its own good?"  
  
"Yes. Yeah. I had - my friend Ryan, he loves that album and we had this whole epic argument in junior high. He, he's kind of crazy in love with John Lennon."  
  
"How crazy, posters-on-the-wall crazy or tattoos-of-lyrics crazy?"  
  
"More like he was born forty years too late and he would have been one of the screaming groupies on the Ed Sullivan show."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Yeah. So...yeah, Ryan went through this intense Sgt. Pepper phase, he even got this - this coat, like one of those double-breasted ones with the buttons? I just, I couldn't let that stand."  
  
"Clearly."  
  
"Right. So I told him I thought that album was overrated. There - might have been hitting."  
  
"Huh." New Guy shifts in place a bit. Spencer has only an approximate idea of how close they are; he finds himself wanting to slide his leg over or something so that they have a point of physical contact, just so he can know exactly where New Guy is sitting. At the same time he wishes that New Guy wouldn't sit down on the bed - none of the others do and even though New Guy hasn't done anything bad yet, it makes Spencer's heart thud with nerves. He's really hungry but he also wishes that New Guy would say something else.  
  
"Is Ryan too clever for his own good?"  
  
Spencer breathes out, tipping his face briefly against the mattress. Despite everything, he can't help smiling a tiny bit. "Yeah. Sometimes."  
  
"You can tell a lot about someone by what Beatles album they like," New Guy informs him sagely. The cereal bar taps against Spencer's mouth again and he startles at the touch before opening his lips for a small bite. It feels weird enough to eat straight out of someone's hands; to do it blind is fucking unnerving, and Spencer has to chew for a bit before he can convince his body to swallow. "Ryan's too clever, you're a pistol."  
  
Spencer snorts with surprised laughter and promptly chokes. He curls up, coughing; it hurts where Skinny kicked his ribs.  
  
A hand settles on the back of his shoulder, warm through the thin t-shirt. "Sorry. Bad joke, bad timing."  
  
New Guy's hand is splayed wide across Spencer's shoulder blade, two fingertips resting on the bare skin of his neck. When he can breathe again, Spencer gasps, "You're complicated."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Spencer coughs, clears his throat. "You like the White Album. You have two sides, and you're complicated."  
  
A long, long pause. Spencer lies on his side on the bed with his hands pressed together, held high near his head. His face almost fits into the crook of his elbows. His fingers twitch. The hand on his shoulder doesn't move.  
  
"Huh," New Guy says at last, taking his hand away.  
  
There's another brush against Spencer's mouth and he opens up, takes a bite. Chews quietly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **viii.  
 _cold_**  
  
Appropriately enough, Bob's on his way home from his therapist's office when his phone rings. "Bryar."  
  
"Hey, hi, Bob? This is Spencer. Um, Smith?"  
  
Bob takes his foot off the gas instinctively, coasting down the street. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," Spencer sobs. "Nothing, just, how are you, did you have a good Thanksgiving?"  
  
Pulling over beside a fire hydrant, Bob throws the pickup in park. This isn't the first time that Spencer's called him since they met at the café, but those have all been short conversations that grew shorter, with longer pauses, like a toy winding down. Bob has a feeling this one won't be going in that direction. "Yeah. Spent it at my friend's place. They're vegetarians, made tofurkey. I ordered a pizza."  
  
Spencer coughs a watery laugh. "What, to their Thanksgiving dinner?"  
  
"Yeah. I smuggled it in the back door. Carley - Brian's wife - and I ate the whole damn thing in the downstairs bathroom and I hid the box in their shower." He pauses. "How are you?"  
  
"I'm good. Had a great Thanksgiving, helped Mom make the turkey. Nothing's happened, not really, I should be just fine. I'm fucking _fine_." His voice breaks on the last syllable.  
  
Bob sits with the phone pressed against his ear, listening to Spencer cry down the line. When it doesn't show any signs of stopping, he asks quietly, "What happened?"  
  
" _Nothing_. Nothing really happened, it's so fucking stupid." Spencer sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. "I was in Culinary Fundamentals and - I was refilling the quat bucket, and I don't know, I think there was something about, like, the smell?"  
  
"A little sweet, chemical-y," Bob hazards.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Chloroform. The smell probably reminded you of it." He pauses, watching the small bubble of defrosted glass grow among the ice on his windshield. "Smell's actually the sense most closely tied to memory. You got something else you can sniff? I know it sounds weird, but it helps."  
  
"Um. Not really." There's some shuffling. "I've got one of those little dangly pine trees."  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
"My car. I got as far as the parking lot and then - I, um, I kind of freaked out worse? Fuck, I shouldn't've gone outside." He hiccups a watery laugh. "I'm such a fucking train wreck."  
  
"Where's Hall?" Bob asks.  
  
"He's right outside the car. He, um, he thinks I'm calling my mom."  
  
A pause. There's a turn in the conversation about to happen, a curve away from the straight road to Nowhere that they've been on. Bob can practically see the turn coming; he's been working on visualization in therapy lately. Spencer must sense the turn, too, because he quiets a bit, waiting. The road signs loom ahead, big yellow caution signals blinking and Bob knows he should tell Spencer to actually call his mom, or get out and talk to Hall.  
  
Instead he asks, "Why didn't you call your mom?"  
  
"I think she's having nightmares," Spencer says. His voice sounds clogged. Bob wonders how long he sat there, curled up in his car, fighting the panic attack on his own. "The whole thing screwed her up pretty bad. She hasn't said anything, but she's not sleeping."  
  
"Okay." There are at least a dozen other people in Spencer's personal circle - Bob examined them all line by line when he was looking for the kidnappers' sentry, before he picked up on the gardener's sudden absence - and he should tell Spencer to call one of them. Or, hell, the high-end psychiatrist who probably costs five times as much as the licensed care social worker Bob sees every other week.  
  
Mentally Bob adorns the curve in the road with rickety guard rails and a deep gully beyond them. It doesn't work. "You want me to come by and pick you up, or you want Hall to drive you over?"  
  
Spencer breathes in his ear for a long moment before saying, "We, I'll get Zack to drive."  
  
"I'll meet you there."  
  
His apartment is, naturally, a disaster. Bob gets home with only a few minutes to spare so he doesn't bother with the mess except to kick some of the newspapers underneath the couch before he puts on a pot of coffee. The front door buzzes just as it's starting to percolate.  
  
Hall tromps up the stairs with Spencer, their shoes depositing imprints of dirty snow on every step. If Hall's got an opinion on this little expedition, or on the state of Bob's living quarters, he doesn't show it. "I live fifteen minutes away," he tells Spencer gently. "I've got my phone on."  
  
"Thanks, Zack," Spencer murmurs. He looks drained, his eyes red and raw. He's still wearing a cook's white apron.  
  
Hall shoots Bob a pointed gaze laced with real concern as he leaves; it kind of makes Bob want to take him aside and warn him about not getting personally involved, but he's not in any position to give professional advice.  
  
Despite his visible exhaustion, it takes Spencer a full half hour and an extensive tour of Bob's apartment before he'll settle down. Bob hears him moving from room to room. Normally he'd sooner chew off his own arm than let someone just poke around in his space, but apparently he's willing to make all kinds of exceptions for Spencer.  
  
When he wanders into the living room the coffee's just gotten cool enough to drink. Bob's sitting on the couch with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, working on a crossword. Spencer sits down on the other end of the couch, puts his apron down on the table - carefully folded and wrapped up in its own ties - and says, "You're not here very much, huh?"  
  
"No." Bob sets aside the crossword and nudges the half-gallon of cream closer to Spencer, watching as he pours in a large dollop. "Brian's been trying to branch us out internationally. Frankie and I - Frank Iero, he works for Brian, too - most of the summer in Mexico City negotiating for a journalist."  
  
Spencer cups both hands around the mug, his legs folded up underneath him. The skin under his eyes is bruised, fragile. "The whole summer?"  
  
"Militant group had him, didn't want to let him go for less than half a million. The paper had abduction insurance but only up to two hundred thousand. His family had to come up with the rest somehow - and of course the local police were more worried about catching the militants than getting him out alive."  
  
Spencer eases back into the couch, tilting his head to rest on the cushions. His hoodie is thick and pulled tight around his neck but Bob can still just barely see the hollow of his throat. "Did you get him out?" Spencer asks softly, soft as his eyes and damp hair and full mouth.  
  
"Yeah," Bob answers. Spencer gives him this sad little smile and Bob has to look away, sip from his own tepid coffee cup.  
  
"How long...?"  
  
"Two and a half months."  
  
Spencer makes a faint sound. "And you were down there the whole time? That's got to be tough on your fiancee."  
  
The coffee swirls around and around inside Bob's cup. "Yeah. Jamia, though, she's tough. Tougher than me. She got used to it pretty quick."  
  
"That's good," Spencer murmurs.  
  
"Yeah." Bob sets his coffee aside with a thunk and stretches his legs out. "So tell me about this class you're taking."  
  
"Oh. I'm getting my degree in the Culinary Arts. I want to be a chef - cook in a restaurant, create dishes, the whole...chef thing. I'm taking Culinary Fundamentals. It's split up into two sections, kitchen basics like knife skills and sanitation, and soups and sauces. I missed some of the first section, so I'm kind of playing catchup. Everyone's moved on to vegetable-based soups and I'm dragging ass in fucking palate development." He runs his hand back through his hair, tugging at the ends. "And now I've skipped another fucking day. Which isn't going to help."  
  
"Maybe you should talk to someone in administration," Bob suggests quietly. "Work out some way of making up the classes without running ragged. I mean, I'm not the head chef-teacher, but I'd say that you've got some pretty fucking extenuating circumstances."  
  
"Yeah, maybe." Spencer looks away. "I just don't like letting them take anything else, you know?"  
  
"Yeah. I know."  
  
They sit. Bob sips his coffee. "You been sleeping?" he asks.  
  
"Not really." Spencer shakes his head and laughs a little, the sound like the last rattle in an empty bottle. "My doctor, he wants me to take pills."  
  
Bob looks at him sharply. Spencer tilts his head, his smile turning bitter and _I know, right?_ "Well, shit," Bob says, thinking of small plastic prescription bottles and Grady forcing Spencer's mouth open.  
  
"Yeah," Spencer murmurs, running his hand back through his hair again. He looks around the apartment, his face winding like a fallen ribbon through different emotions (none of them good), then down into his coffee cup. He draws in a short breath between his teeth, then asks in a low, even tone, "Can I ask you something? That day - the first day when, um, when the guy with the raspy voice, Grady - when he brought you in, you asked if...you could fuck me."  
  
Bob leans forward, puts his cup down on the coffee table and folds his warmed fingers in his lap. Most victims want to examine their episodes to some extent - it's part of the recovery process, putting together the details into a cohesive, acceptable whole, Making Sense of It All. At this point, though, even Bob has to admit that Spencer is not _most_ kidnap victims.  
  
Most kidnap victims would not have done what Spencer did.  
  
Bob says, "I needed an excuse to make regular visits to the basement." Inside his head, he violently shoves away the memory of holding Spencer down, his bare skin under Bob's hands.  
  
"And?" Spencer is watching him and goddammit, the kid is too fucking sharp.  
  
"It was a test. I wanted to know how disciplined they were, and how smart. Any kind of physical contact like that, there's a risk of DNA evidence. With a group crime like that, if one gets grabbed, the cops'll turn them on the others. Then everybody goes down."  
  
Spencer nods, his eyes down. He doesn't drink any more coffee or ask any more questions and after a long moment he bites at his lip.  
  
Bob scrubs a hand through his hair then sits forward, ducking his head down to catch Spencer's eye but carefully not moving any closer. "I'm sorry. If I could have gotten what I needed some other way, I would have done it."  
  
It takes a visible effort for Spencer to hold Bob's gaze, but he manages. "I know. You don't have to apologize." Bob makes a face and Spencer straightens, pulling himself together. "You don't. I'm not going to lie, you - it scared me, a lot. But then you saved my fucking _life_. You're not why I have trouble sleeping, Bob, I - I came here. Today, I came here, and you helped, and I knew you would."  
  
Slowly and with great deliberation, Fear sticks a cold finger in Bob's gut, back near his spine. He knows that feeling way too well, but his usual methods for making it go away aren't going to work here. They haven't been working at all lately, and Bob just spent two hours holed up in his therapist's office because he doesn't know what the hell else to do. People do stupid things when they let themselves get backed into a corner, but Spencer's still looking him and Bob just sits there looking back like an idiot.  
  
The moment stretches on and on and way too fucking long. At last Bob says, "It gets easier." He has no idea which one of them he's talking to. Probably both. That tight corner closes in on him, trap door snapping shut and locking him in.  
  
"Promise?" Spencer's eyes search him. He has pale brown freckles all across his nose. They're all faded now in the winter months but come summertime they'll turn darker.  
  
"Yeah." Bob makes himself sit back, turns to pick up his crossword. "So. You know any five-letter words for 'saying'?"  
  
"'Adage'," Spencer answers promptly, like the good little prep school graduate he is. Bob snorts faintly and pencils it in.  
  
They sit doing the crossword together as the windows turn dark. Eventually, Spencer falls asleep right there on the couch, sitting up with his mug still in hand. Bob eases it from his lax fingers then spreads his comforter across Spencer's lap and chest. Spencer doesn't wake, his eyelashes fanned over his cheek and his face peaceful at last.  
  
Bob leaves the light on, then puts on two sweaters and crawls between his sheets, curling up. His side aches. He'd been shot before, has the scars to prove it, and every time it seems to take longer for the hurt to stop. He closes his eyes.  
  
A few hours later he wakes up cold, his heart pounding. There's someone in his room and he half bolts up before he recognizes Spencer in the glow of the living room light. "Wha - ?"  
  
Spencer shakes his head and then climbs right into Bob's bed, dragging the comforter after him. He flops down, pushing his head into the pillow beside Bob's. Bob's half-propped on one arm, his balance precarious. He blinks, trying to clear the sleep away. It doesn't take. The bed shakes and it takes too long for Bob to realize that Spencer is trembling. "Spencer..."  
  
"I know, I'm sorry," Spencer whispers. "Just, I woke up and I didn't know where I fucking was." He curls up tight, defensive, his hands tucked in his armpits.  
  
"Spencer." Bob lies back down on his side, facing him. He carefully, slowly wraps his fingers around one of Spencer's wrists and tugs until Spencer gives it over. "Breathe slower. You're okay."  
  
Spencer doesn't reply. His eyes are closed. Bob spreads his hand open and rubs two fingertips in a small circle on Spencer's palm. "This' a panic attack. I've had them before, you'll survive it. Nothing bad's going to happen to you."  
  
"Fuck," Spencer gasps. "Okay. Okay. Okay. Fuck. I'm okay. Nothing's happening. I'm safe." He pushes his face into the pillow.  
  
"Yeah," Bob whispers. He brushes his other hand over Spencer's shoulder, cheek, and hair, careful not to linger. When the shudder of Spencer's breath steadies he gradually lightens the circling of his fingertips until Spencer twitches and closes his hand around Bob's.  
  
"Tickles," Spencer whispers.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"S'okay," Spencer whispers. "Sorry, I'll leave in a minute. Go back to sleep."  
  
Bob breathes out very, very slowly. Spencer still has hold of his hand. The mattress is old and dented so there's no real way to put space between them. They're pressed together all along their fronts and Bob is suddenly very aware of every part of his body and every way that it touches Spencer, their knees bumping and their fingers tangled together between them.  
  
Spencer shifts again, his hand flexing around Bob's but his eyes staying shut. "You're cold."  
  
"Shhh," Bob whispers and then, because he can tell himself later that he's half-asleep too, he ducks down and presses his lips to Spencer's.  
  
For a second Spencer's mouth is slack against his; then he's opening up and making a soft noise. Bob tilts his chin to deepen the kiss. There's a small yelling voice in the back of his head, though - sounds kinda like Brian - that gets louder and louder, and he manages to get his head together enough to move away - except Spencer follows, tilting his chin and curling his fingertips in the front of Bob's shirt. He's still not totally aware and it'd be easy to nudge him away.  
  
Bob doesn't. Instead he lets Spencer push in another kiss and then another. No, no, he does more than _let_ : he cups the round of Spencer's jaw and pulls him in closer until Spencer is half-sprawled on top of him. He's sleep-soft and warm, and Bob can't make himself stop touching, running fingers through Spencer's hair until it stands up in tufts and pushing one hand up under Spencer's hoodie - Spencer twitches a bit at that but doesn't break the kiss - to rub his knuckles against Spencer's belly. There's a spot on the back of Spencer's shoulder that must have a billion nerve endings because when Bob runs a hand over it Spencer moans and his hips jerk against Bob's and finally, finally, Bob breaks away.  
  
He can't go far, their legs are tangled and Spencer has one arm wrapped tight around his waist, but he digs his head back against the mattress. Spencer blinks his eyes open, dazed and then widening, like he's just waking up. A slight frown bends his eyebrows. He starts to speak and, "Shhh," Bob says, "go back to sleep," before pulling him in close and hooking his chin over Spencer's head. Spencer breathes out against Bob's neck, settling into the curve of his body by slow degrees.  
  
In the morning, their coffee cups are in the dishwasher and Spencer is gone. There's a note on the kitchen table underneath a muffin. Bob doesn't read it when he gets up. Instead he finds his phone and calls Brian to take that job in Nigeria.

  
-o-

 

> ((  
>  _dva._
> 
> The need to vomit finally drives Bob out of bed, because he's not that far gone that he's willing to just puke on the floor. The wastebaskets have already been destroyed and currently sit outside on the balcony; he'd order more but his Russian was never very good and the room service personnel in this place seem to actively hate him. The feeling is mutual, especially after that last little ruckus when they refused to re-stock the minibar.
> 
> There's a small white hand towel already sitting in front of the toilet, folded neatly like a prayer cloth. Bob forgoes yakking for a moment to stare at it. He stands braced in the doorway, one hand on either side to hold him up, staring. He can't remember putting it there - but he must have, in some previous gesticulation to the porcelain gods.
> 
> Distantly the front door to the hotel suite opens and a prickle runs up Bob's spine. He steps inside the bathroom and closes the door behind him, switches on the fan. Over its metallic buzz, he can hear someone moving around outside in the hotel room, and he tastes bile in his throat.
> 
> ))

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**iii.  
 _dark_**  
  
At the start of Spencer's third week in the basement, it rains and the stereo breaks. The sound of speed metal crumbles into static, and then silence. It must be night because there's no sound after that, just the faint drip of leaks all around him, the creak of wood, and the distant patter of rain outside. He can tell there's a window to his right because every now and then a water droplet will hit glass on that side of the basement. Spencer turns his face in that direction blindly.  
  
He _sleeps_ like he hasn't in weeks - even in his dreams the music had been a muted roar. When he wakes, though, the air is freezing, and he's shivering and disoriented, sick with fear that he can't even pinpoint for a long, half-awake moment. Then he hears a faint scuffling noise somewhere else in the basement, like something _alive_ is down here with him. Logically he knows that it must be a rat or something, maybe even a really big cockroach, but as he's lying there blind and helpless the sound looms huge in his mind.  
  
Finally, after what feels like long hours of stillness, there are footsteps across the floor above him. A door opens at the top of the stairs and the feet come down, thudding thick and heavy on each step. Spencer's fingers curl up into fists.  
  
"Thank fuck," New Guy mutters, then raises his voice, "Hey, you awake?"  
  
Spencer tries to answer but his voice won't work. He nods jerkily then jumps when a weight lands on his legs and spreads upward.  
  
"Just a blanket. Had some freezing rain last night. Looks like the roof leaked on the radio, hallelujah." His boots scuff on the floor, heading towards the window on Spencer's right. "Everything outside is covered in ice - you hear the tree branches breaking?"  
  
"No." Spencer takes a shaky deep breath. "I heard, I think there's something down here, like a rat? Maybe? I heard it in here last night."  
  
"Where?"  
  
Spencer lifts his foot to point. The blanket is thick, heavy. "Over there."  
  
New Guy's boots move in that direction, and then there's a series of odd noises, scraps and wood clonking against the concrete floor. "Ugh," New Guy says.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Mouse shit."  
  
"Think - you think that's it?"  
  
"Probably. I've seen raccoons out in the trash, too."  
  
"Raccoons are okay," Spencer mumbles, half to himself. He can deal with raccoons. The noise hadn't been that big, though; mice seems more plausible.  
  
"They're fucking dirty," New Guy says darkly, walking back towards the bed. The mattress dips as he sits down. "Fucking hate raccoons. They'd take my mom's trash, spread it out over half the street."  
  
The tone of his voice makes it clear who had to recollect the trash. Spencer tilts his head, turns up one corner of his mouth. "Yeah, but the little hands are cute."  
  
New Guy snorts. "They'd look cuter on my _wall_."  
  
"See, now, that's just mean."  
  
"Whatever. You hungry?"  
  
Spencer's always hungry. He rolls up onto his side and opens his mouth. It's a bit of a surprise when something round and smooth presses against his lips; he bites down automatically. It's an apple. "Mm."  
  
"Good?"  
  
Spencer nods. One of his molars on the right side of his mouth has taken to throbbing and he winces as he chews.  
  
"Something wrong?" New Guy asks.  
  
Spencer swallows. "I think I have a cavity."  
  
"Yeah? It hurt?"  
  
"Just when I eat."  
  
"Anything else hurt?" New Guy asks. He asks that from time to time.  
  
Spencer's shoulders have gone past burning and cramping into this half-numb state. The handcuffs are long enough that he can move around a little bit and sometimes when he thinks no one is going to come in for a while he'll sit up against the metal bars of the headboard and let his arms drop into his lap. Still, he spends a lot of his time with his arms raised above his head. His right hip feels like it's been permanently bruised from balancing on the side of the bed to use the Shit Bucket. He's pretty sure he has a rash on his back from wearing the same filthy clothes for two weeks. He's cold and stiff and his wrists, his wrists burn everytime the handcuffs shift over his raw skin. "Nothing new."  
  
"That's not saying much." New Guy pauses. "I'm going to touch your wrists, okay?"  
  
Spencer tenses automatically. Nothing happens, though, and after a moment he realizes that New Guy is waiting. He whispers, "Okay."  
  
The bed shifts and then New Guy's fingers brush over his. Spencer sets his teeth but New Guy touches him so carefully, turning his hands from side to side. It still stings, but not as bad as Spencer had thought it would.  
  
"They're not getting infected," New Guy announces, sitting back.  
  
"Oh. Okay. Thanks. And...thanks for the blanket."  
  
"No problem. You - "  
  
There's a sound from somewhere by the door and then all of a sudden hands are grabbing Spencer roughly, digging into his sides and turning him. It's so abrupt that he doesn't have time to brace himself, just flops onto his belly like a fish on land. He sucks in a startled breath, because he smells soap and the person-specific smell that he's come to recognize, and this is New Guy touching him like that, this is New Guy pushing the blanket away and yanking down Spencer's pants to bare his ass. The breath in Spencer's lungs leaves him with a frightened noise and he starts struggling wildly, bucking and thrashing. A heavy weight lands across the backs of his thighs, pressing him down. Jeans scrape hard against the backs of his thighs, a zipper presses right against the end of his tailbone. His bare feet skid across the mattress, unable to find purchase. It's too sudden, he's not ready for this, and he knew better, he _should_ have known.  
  
"Why's the music - OHSHIT, what the fuck, dude?!"  
  
The weight on top of Spencer stills and shifts slightly, but he's still sprawled helplessly, his ass exposed. "You wanna get the fuck out," New Guy growls low in his throat, and Spencer barely recognizes his voice, "or you wanna stay and watch?"  
  
Skinny chokes a phlegmy laugh that dissolves into coughing. "Shit, dude. If Scott sees you in here - "  
  
"That any of your fucking business?"  
  
Skinny laughs again, incredulous, says, "Fuck," and leaves.  
  
For a long moment New Guy stays on top of Spencer, then rolls away. Even after the weight of him is gone, Spencer lies still, his eyes shut tight behind the blindfold. His wrists scream in pain, sharp stabs. Somewhere in his head he understands what just happened but he can't make his body believe it and he can't relax. He almost wishes he had some Valium again, just to take the edge off; now everything's sharp and clear and unbearable. Everytime he thinks he's got a handle on himself, things keep just _happening_ and he can't - he can't, it's suddenly too much to hold onto. He pulls at the handcuffs again, then again, hard, breathing between his teeth against the pain.  
  
A big warm hand wraps around both of his wrists, holding him when he goes to yank again. "Stop."  
  
Spencer's breath is loud, harsh in the basement. Usually he tries to keep quiet, like maybe somehow they'll forget about him, but right now he just _can't_ , and he's panting high in his throat, whines on the inhales.  
  
A second hand settles in the middle of his back. Spencer flinches but it only rests lightly over the middle of his spine, not holding him down. They're not touching anywhere else but he can feel the heat of New Guy's body all along his side. He's right there and they're alone again, but he's not moving to touch Spencer anywhere else or do anything except lie beside him, holding his wrists and resting one hand on his back.  
  
When New Guy finally moves the hand on Spencer's back, it's to reach down and slowly, carefully pull the sweatpants back up. His fingers touch only cloth; he doesn't brush Spencer's skin even once. He's not going to do that. He said he wouldn't and Spencer hadn't really believed him but now he - he sort of has to.  
  
Otherwise he's pretty sure that he's going to die in this place.  
  
"You won't," Spencer whispers. His lips catch on the rough, filthy sheets. He shudders, because he knows he shouldn't say that out loud, as if it might break the spell and wake this guy up to exactly what he's doing.  
  
But then the guy says, low and steady, "I won't," and Spencer's breath hitches, coughing out a sob. He presses his face into the bed to muffle himself. The big heavy hand settles on his back again and Spencer doesn't flinch.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **vii.  
 _cold_**  
  
Bob picks a local café - public but private enough to talk. This isn't the kind of conversation you want to have someone else overhearing.  
  
Spencer shows up with a security guy in tow. Bob looks him over: he knows the Murdock outfit, and Zack Hall's record looks good. Hall gives him the same eyeballing before he takes a seat against the wall with good views of both the front and back doors. He's not a big guy, but he moves with confidence, smiles at the waitress, quickly assesses and settles into his environment.  
  
Turning, Bob finds Spencer watching him. "What do you think?" Spencer asks in a low voice. His fingers flick in Hall's direction.  
  
Bob blinks. "Seems solid," he answers finally. "If he doesn't work out I've got some names you can try. But he should be good."  
  
Spencer nods. They take a seat near the back; Bob takes the chair facing away from the door. It makes his shoulder blades itch, but he sees Spencer shooting the other patrons quick glances. Once he's settled he turns his attention on Bob, who sits with his hands pushed deep into his pocket. The cut above Spencer's eye has faded; it'll probably leave a small scar, unless Mommy and Daddy shell out for some plastic surgery to erase it altogether.  
  
Their waitress comes over with ice water, lemon wedges, menus. Spencer doesn't look away so Bob does, pulling the corners of his mouth back in a smile that he hopes is halfway polite.  
  
She leaves. Spencer says, "Um. How've you been?"  
  
"Good. You?"  
  
"Fine. How's your," he gestures at Bob's side.  
  
"Good. Got the sling off a week ago." He's been pushing Brian for a new job ever since he left the doctor's office, but suddenly all the new gigs have mysteriously vanished. Bob has a strong feeling that he's been blackmailed into this.  
  
Spencer drops his gaze, finally, reaching out to touch all five of his fingertips to the cold, sweating glass in front of him. It's freezing outside, the clouds spitting snow and the streets dusted; Spencer's thick hoodie and jacket still seem like overkill. His nails are bitten down to the quick. "I don't know what to say," he admits, his eyes on the ice in his glass. He turns it in a slow, inching circle, counter-clockwise. "I had this whole speech in my head, starting off with 'thank you,' but I don't really know how you thank someone for what you did. I mean, it's your job, you did it because - that's what you do. I can't figure out how you do something like that, and then turn around and do it over again. How long have you - " He looks up, his eyes bright and open.  
  
"Five years. Worked personal security before that. Friend of mine - Brian, you've met him - called me up and said he was starting this outfit. I didn't have anything worthwhile going on at the time, so."  
  
"Is it always like - how, with me," Spencer stumbles over the words, flushing. Bob's fingers twitch in his pockets. "I mean, does it happen that way all the time?"  
  
"No. The way it works most of the time, the head guy gets his crew tight - no newcomers dropping in. Once they get a plan together they don't deviate from it and the only thing you can do is negotiate and hope for the best. In your case, the plan got fucked sideways." Bob shrugs. "I got lucky."  
  
"And how many times have you done this, in the last five years?"  
  
Bob shifts in his chair. "A lot." When Spencer looks like he needs more, Bob shakes his head. "I can't talk about most of them."  
  
Spencer bites at his lip, searching Bob's face. "How do people normally thank you?"  
  
 _Danger, Bob Bryar_. Bob looks away under the pretense of tracking the waitress' movements. He shrugs. "Depends. Some buy me a drink, cigars. If it's a kid...it just depends."  
  
"Do you get a lot of kids?"  
  
"Yeah," Bob says, watching the waitress fill napkin holders. She'll probably get nervous if he keeps staring at her. Most people do.  
  
"Do you like this job?"  
  
"Sometimes."  
  
They sit in silence for long enough that Bob looks back at him. Spencer's attention is on the glass, his expression - sad. He looks really fucking sad, the corners of his mouth slumping and his eyes shuttered. He's turning the glass again. "If you've got somewhere to be, don't let me keep you," he says.  
  
Fuck, Bob's so fucking _bad_ at this. "What - why'd you keep calling? It wasn't just to ask for my resumé." It's too blunt, but he's not fit for polite company on a good day. This isn't a good day.  
  
The glass stills. Spencer slants him a quick, blue glance. "David McCullough."  
  
It shouldn't surprise Bob, but it does. He sits back against the cheap plastic chair. "What about him?"  
  
"The police say they're getting closer to him, but," Spencer pulls a sour face, "yeah, no. They're not - no."  
  
The structure's jumbled but Bob still gets the meaning loud and clear: _I don't trust them_. Which Bob can't necessarily disagree with, considering how badly the local PD had botched Spencer's case. He tilts his head back, running his eyes over the door to the restrooms and the narrow entry into the kitchen. The sweet smell of lemon poppyseed bread wafts around them.  
  
"I let him go," he says.  
  
A pause and then, "What," said loud and flat. Spencer is staring at him, his lips slightly parted.  
  
Both of Bob's feet rest flat on the floor, his legs spread. He rocks back onto his heels, ready to push back if necessary; it's a reflex, but all things considered... "That was my in. The head man, Girardi, he'd set it up so that no one knew each other - don't think he trusted anyone. When he went down, no one knew how to contact his driver. Their plan was sideways - but that didn't mean they were just gonna let somebody new walk in on their crew without someone else's voucher. So when I found McCullough, I made a deal. He walked, I got in."  
  
Spencer's palms are spread on the tabletop. He's on the balls of his feet, Bob can see it in his posture without even checking under the table. "You let him _go_? He called my fucking parents and told them he'd cut my throat if they didn't pay him _and you let him **go**?_ "  
  
Across the café, Hall is balanced on the balls of his feet, too, a frown between his eyes. Bob keeps his hands in his pockets even though every instinct is telling him to put them in front of his face; he wonders if Hall will protect _him_ from _Spencer_.  
  
"It was either that," he says, "or they were going to find their real driver, and he was going to find a good dumping ground, then shoot you in the back of the head and burn your body."  
  
That catches Spencer hard, tugs his mouth open further and takes away whatever the hell he'd been about to yell. Bob leans in on his elbows; it's not fair, but he's used to taking his chances where he gets them. "McCullough was never anywhere near your throat. He was the contact man. Only rich fuckers who can book private jets and desperate assholes make good contact men, and McCullough wasn't fucking rich. They'll find him." Spencer sucks in a breath and Bob cuts him off with a raised finger. "Point two. There are two types of kidnappings, personal and non-personal. Personal kidnappings are usually custody battles - one parent gets the kid, the other one grabs the kid. Ninety-percent of the time neither of them can afford my rates. Non-personal kidnappings are strictly crimes of opportunity - someone looks at someone else and sees dollar signs. Yours was never personal, Spencer."  
  
Bob politely does not mention the fact how McCullough had admitted, under some duress, that Spencer had been a complete mistake and the kidnapping ring had actually been after one of the twins. Probably the one with the rock on her finger.  
  
Spencer is still braced, shoulders hitched up and too scared. "So he's out there. He could be anywhere."  
  
"McCullough has no reason to come after you, you were just a paycheck to him."  
  
"What about you, was I just a paycheck to _you_?"  
  
It's Bob's turn to find himself without words. He stares across the narrow table.  
  
Spencer's shoulders drop and he looks away. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair. I didn't mean to - I didn't bring you here to fucking yell at you, Jesus." He runs his fingers sideways through the swoop of his bangs, self-conscious. Under the table, his sneaker squeaks against the linoleum as his knee bounces in place.  
  
The waitress comes back around to take their orders. They don't say much after that.  
  
By the time they walk back outside, the snow has picked up. Someone down the street didn't watch the weather forecast and is apparently brand new to the Chicago area, because they're pulling and reversing out of this one driveway again and again, trying to get the studless wheels to turn the way they want. Bob watches Spencer watch them - or, more to the point, Spencer's head snaps towards the sound of a revving engine and Bob takes the opportunity to stare at his profile. He's regained some weight and from this side Bob can't see the scar. With his slightly upturned nose, smooth features, and weird hipster haircut, Spencer looks the part of an upper crust collegiate, ready for a backpacking trip to Europe or a grad school interview.  
  
It's a little hard to believe. When Grady first took him into that basement almost two months ago, Bob had taken one look at the boy chained to the bed and thought, _Shit, they've already killed him_. Except, then Spencer had started talking.  
  
Bob's still not sure if Spencer had even known he was doing it, but Bob knows when he's being played: every word Spencer had said to him had been aimed at working up some empathy, getting Bob on his side.  
  
"Well," Spencer finally says. "Thanks. And thank you, I guess. I don't have a cigar." He looks at Bob, his mouth tight. It's not the expression of someone who's achieved closure.  
  
"Send me one sometime and we'll call it even." Bob sticks out his hand.  
  
Spencer looks at it. Bob almost pulls it back with a curse; after a short hesitation, though, Spencer curls his fingers across Bob's palm and shakes it once. His eyes are shadowed. "Fair enough."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **iv.  
 _dark_**  
  
The day they decide to kill Spencer, they come in with power tools to unscrew the metal reinforced bedframe from the wall. That's what they'd been waiting for all along, because Growl is dead and he had the key to the handcuffs with him, so for a week they'd been trying to figure out a way to get him out of the basement so that they can kill him.  
  
They come in with the bright piercing whir of a drill. Spencer can't see it and he can't tell if it's close to him, and he doesn't understand what's going on. He panics. He hasn't got any Valium in his system but he's still slow, weak, clumsily kicking towards the edge of the bed.  
  
"Hold him the fuck still," someone yells. Spencer can't even tell who. Someone puts a knee in his back and a hand on the back of his head, pinning him down against the bed. His nose is squished flat and he can barely breathe, sucking in dust from the mattress. It makes him think of that other time, with The Guy, but whoever's holding Spencer down now, it's not him. Spencer doesn't know where he is, if he's even in the room. There's the drill and their loud voices.  
  
The drill sound goes deep and slower as the bit gets into something. The handcuffs jerk, pulling tight on Spencer's wrists. He chokes, trying to curl up but the hands on his back hold him down. He has no idea what the fuck they're doing. The bed shakes. The drillling sound stops for a moment; something falls to the floor with a clatter, and then it starts back up again. They've all gone quiet now, clearly waiting for something.  
  
The drill cuts out and a second thing drops, and they push and pull him out of the bed to his feet. His legs fold underneath him immediately. Someone - still not His Guy - curses and drags him back up, fingers digging into his arms.  
  
"Get the fuck up, asswipe," Raspy snarls.  
  
"So what're we doin'?" High asks, his voice pitched up an octave. "Are we - who's gonna - "  
  
"Shut the fuck up. Get his ass upstairs."  
  
They have to drag him most of the way. Spencer tries to walk, he _tries_ , but he hasn't in almost three weeks and he's blind, tripping over the stairs and falling down. His head connects with the top step, sparks behind his eyes, and Raspy swears loudly. "What'd I say? Not in the fuckin' house! Fuck, don't get his blood - "  
  
When Spencer comes to he's lying in the back of a service van that's driving along a bumpy road. He blinks, because he can actually see the van's rubber flooring. The blindfold has come off part of the way; he squints his eyes almost shut against the light. There's blood pooled under his mouth and nose.  
  
The back of the van is cut off from the cab. There's somebody in the back with him, a man who sits against the side, rocking with its motion. His hair is stringy, dirty blond and his eyes are red. He mutters to himself, tugging at his hair.  
  
Spencer swallows, licks his lips. His head is spinning but he knows that mutter. He croaks, "High?"  
  
"Hi," High says. He looks miserable.  
  
"Where're we going?"  
  
High bites at his bottom lip. He's shaking, staring at Spencer. "I'm going to Hell," he whispers back.  
  
Spencer swallows. The van hits a bump and he jolts with it, cringing. His body feels like it's coming apart, like it'll rattle into pieces. "Are you going to kill me?"  
  
"I've done such bad things," High tells him, like Spencer hasn't said a word, isn't even there. He runs fingers through his stringy, thin hair, pulling. "I've done - awful, awful things."  
  
"Please, don't - "  
  
The van brakes suddenly and there's the sound of skidding gravel. Spencer rolls with its motion, hitting his head on the back of the solid wall that cuts them off from the rest of the cab. He's totally fucking helpless, still chained and half-stunned, and that's exactly how he's going to die.  
  
In the cab of the van, a gun goes off. _Bam-bam_ , loud pops.  
  
Someone yells, a wordless shout. Doors open.  
  
High, who'd braced himself against the window, jumps so hard he knocks his head on the roof. "What the - "  
  
And the thing is, Spencer doesn't even think about it; he'd considered it before, yeah, those long hours in the dark, thinking of ways to survive this, but he'd been chained to a bed and it hadn't seemed like something he could actually do or something he could actually ever _do_. But when High turns towards the doors, Spencer rocks up to one knee then totters to the other, flings the link to his handcuffs up over High's head, and tumbles back down to the van floor, letting his weight drag them both down.  
  
The cry of surprise cuts off in High's throat as the chain goes taut.  
  
Outside the van, the gun goes off again.  
  
High gurgles and thrashes. His heels bruise Spencer's shins, the back of his skull connects with the sore place on Spencer's forehead where it hit the stairs earlier. Spencer curls up, his head ducked down. There's another gun shooting and the high metal pings of something hitting the side of the van. Spencer flinches, trying to hide underneath High's struggling body. His cheekbone grinds into the rubber mat covering the floor. His wrists are crossed awkwardly in front of him, the fingers of one hand crushed under High's shoulder. The way he's lying, he couldn't let go if he wanted to. He doesn't.  
  
After another few loud pops it goes quiet. Totally silent, except for the fading noises that High makes and the sobs clawing out of Spencer's throat. He hates that he's crying but he's worn down to nothing and he can't make himself stop.  
  
The back door of the van opens suddenly, bright crack of light that makes Spencer cringe. High is half on top of him, heavy weight bearing down on Spencer, pinning him in place. Spencer's muscles are all locked up and his wrists are on fire. He wants to open his eyes, he doesn't want to die fucking blind and helpless and beaten, but the brightness hurts so much, makes the bruise on his head pulse hard. He's breathing in hiccups of oxygen. All he can think is that he wishes they'd killed him straight off, they should have killed him right away because it was all for nothing, all of it was for nothing and he hates that most of all.  
  
"Spencer." It's The Guy's voice. He says Spencer's name a few more times and Spencer doesn't know but he must respond somehow because The Guy says evenly, "Let go."  
  
"No." Spencer shakes his head. Moisture drips off his face onto the floor, blood and tears.  
  
"He's dead. Let go of him."  
  
"No. No, no, no, no..."  
  
"He's dead, he can't hurt you. Spencer," and his voice drops, gentles, "Spencer, let go."  
  
Spencer's throat is bone dry, nothing but a gasp. "I can't."  
  
"Roll to your left. You can - yeah. Move your right hand to the side and lift up his head. There - other way, Spencer, come on. Hold his head up. There you go."  
  
High's head thuds against the van's floor after Spencer drops it, dragging the chain free. He lies still. Spencer pushes away from him, rolling, falling, crawling on his elbows and knees until his shoulder bumps into the corne. He curls up tight. The tang of blood coats his mouth and he scrabbles at his face, trying to get it off him.  
  
"Slow down," The Guy says. Spencer has his eyes squeezed shut against the light, there's a roar in his ears but he can hear The Guy talking to him, voice pitched low. "You're going to hyperventilate."  
  
"Don't," Spencer whispers.  
  
"I won't. Spencer. I won't."  
  
The light still makes his eyeballs feel like they're being squished, but Spencer forces them open anyway. The Guy stands outside the van, framed by the open door. He's not as tall as Spencer had pictured him, and blond. A lip ring shines in the bristle of his beard. He says, "C'mere."  
  
There's a gun in his right hand. Beyond him, snow flakes are falling on an empty gravel road.  
  
Spencer's eyes fill up; he pinches them shut and feels warm tracks on his cheeks. When he opens them again The Guy is still looking at him, waiting with a steady gaze and one hand pressed against his ribs. He has bright blue eyes. The gun is black and smooth, hard contrast to the pale skin of his hand, to the white of the snowflakes melting on the shoulders of his sheepskin jacket.  
  
After a long, long moment Spencer moves, stretching out his legs from their defensive clench; his muscles creak and his knees pop. It hurts to move at all but he makes himself put his hands flat on the van's floor and focuses on putting one in front of the other. The handcuffs pull him up short, make him move in inches, and the five-foot stretch to the back door feels like miles.  
  
He makes it, though, and then there's an arm looping around his waist, catching him when he staggers out of the van and almost falls. Automatically he puts his hands out and his palms land on a solid chest.  
  
They're standing close, half-leaning against the van's open door. The ground is freezing against Spencer's bare feet, and he's pretty sure that if The Guy steps away, he'll crumple straight down. "We need to go," The Guy says, and tightens his arm around Spencer's waist, guiding him around the back of the van. Spencer stumbles immediately and his forehead knocks into The Guy's jaw. They both hiss but The Guy doesn't pull back. He's so solid under Spencer's palms.  
  
"Slow, don't," Spencer gasps, fingers scrabbling for purchase as he trips over something. His eyes drop - he can't see much, he's squinting so much his eyelashes are a thick blur in his vision, so it takes him a second to realize that he's just tripped over a man. He's on his back on the ground with blood on his face. "Oh my _god_."  
  
"Eyes ahead, come on. We're almost there. Wait - shit, hold on." The Guy steers him over to the side of the van and guides one of Spencer's hands to grip the sidedoor's handle. He steps away and Spencer can't make himself stop from reaching out. "I'm not going anywhere, just wait a second."  
  
He leans forward and opens up the passenger door. A second man tumbles out, dropping to the ground like so much laundry. The Guy kneels down and heaves at him until his legs flop free, his heels making twin crunches in the gravel. This man is dead, too, half of his face just _gone_ , bone exposed. Spencer clings to the door handle, staring down at him. The half-face he doesn't know, but he recognizes the body.  
  
The Guy is still kneeling on the ground, his shoulders curled inward. After a moment he sort of hefts himself up using the open passenger door and looks at Spencer. "Think you can get in?" he asks, his voice strained.  
  
"I," Spencer says, shivering, "yes, I can." He takes one step, then another, then sort of pitches forward onto the seat, dragging himself up with both hands.  
  
The door slams behind him and Spencer clings to the seat, breathing hard, before slowly pushing himself up to a sitting position. The cab is filled with the rush of warm air pooling out of the vents. He can smell blood. There are two dead men outside - Skinny and Raspy, it has to be them, they're lying in the dirt and snow. The Guy, His Guy, killed them both.  
  
Spencer opens his eyes.  
  
His Guy is walking around the front of the van, wincing with every step. Spencer tracks him, taking in the details. The skin around his eyes is bruised and drawn, his beard is unkempt, his clothes dirty; he looks like some kind of wild mountainman, or someone who the ATF would arrest for having machine guns in his basement...instead of, well, a skinny rich kid.  
  
He shot the others. He said he wouldn't hurt Spencer, he hasn't, he won't. Which means - he's - Spencer's - he takes a deep breath of warm air.  
  
The driver's side door opens and His Guy climbs inside. He has one hand still pressed tight against his side. "Spencer, listen, my name's Bob Bryar and I've been - "  
  
Spencer gropes across the seat, still half-blind, and grabs at The - at _Bob's_ shirt, his shoulders, his face, and kisses him. It's awkward and too hard; their noses smash together and their teeth connect. The world is pulsing around Spencer. He grabs onto Bob's collar.  
  
A hand settles on the back of his neck and Bob pulls away, his face blank. " - hired by Ryan Ross to get you home safe. He hired me to get you home and that's what I'm going to do now. But you might have to drive, because I've been shot."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **vi.  
 _cold_**  
  
"You feel like traveling?" Brian asks through the phone. Bob makes a non-committal noise. He fucking hates to fly and Brian knows it, but Bob hates a lot of things. Doesn't change them. "There's a Nigerian businessman gone missing. No demands yet but the company's got us on retainer and will notify us if it turns into a job."  
  
"Nigerian businessmen...thought they only existed on the internet."  
  
"Maybe he got nabbed by a bunch of grandmas he swindled."  
  
Bob starts to make another non-committal noise then changes his inflection at the last moment to make it more amused. It probably doesn't work but his therapist says he should try being more communicative with his loved ones. It'd probably make Brian throw up to hear it in those terms, but he was the one who strong-armed Bob into seeing the goddamn therapist in the first place. He's in no position to complain.  
  
"Where the fuck are you anyways?"  
  
Bob takes a right, pulls into a parking lot. "Shopping. I need a new container of baking soda for my fridge. The old one wasn't getting rid of the smell." A hazard of not being in his apartment for four weeks.  
  
"You consider a fire hose?"  
  
"Fuck off. I was gonna pick up some - ice cream, to bring over." He'd almost said _beer_ , which woulda been pretty fucking stupid considering he'd been the one to drag Brian's overdosing ass to rehab in the first place, and the one who picked him up after he'd burned it all out of his system for good. Bob isn't great at keeping his foot out of his mouth. "Now I'm just gonna keep it, eat it all myself."  
  
"What, the ice cream? Shit, Bryar, are you seriously going to sit on your couch eating ice cream? You got a Meg Ryan movie to watch?"  
  
"Naw. Power hasn't been switched back on. Fucking landlord says Monday." Another hazard of being absent for long periods of time.  
  
Papers rustle down the line. "You want to come over, for real?" Brian asks after a minute. "I can fire up the grill."  
  
Getting out of the pickup with his arm still in the sling takes Bob a few minutes and a lot of juggling. Finally he gets his feet on the ground, slams the car door with a little too much force, and replies, "Naw, I'm good. I'm not really up for the Passive Aggressive Olympics."  
  
"Fuck you, Bryar." If Frankie and Jamia are the firebombs of marital spats, then Brian and Carley are like an endless cold war, never erupting but with endless casualties. "Go eat your fucking ice cream in the dark, asshole. Wait, don't hang up."  
  
Bob stops just outside the supermarket doors. He knows that tone.  
  
"The, uh, the Smith kid's been calling again."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And what the fuck, Bryar? Fuck you, you know what _and_." Brian's voice goes sharp, sounds like his Bob-I-think-you've-gotta-fucking-talk-to-s

omebody rant all over again. "I don't know what the fuck your problem is here, but you know exactly why the fuck he's calling."

"What do you want me to do about it? I already did the black-tie dinner at his parents' house."

"I _know_ , okay? I'm not asking you to hold his hand and attend healing seminars together. In fact," he laughs a little, short and completely unamused, "I'd really strongly recommend against any hand-holding. Just, you know the drill, motherfucker, answer some questions, give him some fucking closure. That's what I'm asking."

"Why?"

"Because you know he's going to keep calling if you don't. Because it's the right fucking thing to do. Because his parents are richer than shit, all of their friends are richer than shit - our fucking _customer base_ \- and do I need to remind you how much of our business relies on word of mouth? If you're that worried he'll try to jump your bones, meet up someplace real public. Just make sure he brings his bodyguard, and you don't so much as shake his hand."

Bob pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Fucking fine. Text his number to my phone and I'll call him."

After they hang up he stands in the parking lot for a long time, watching the other shoppers buzz in and out of the sliding doors, ferrying their purchases on bright red carts to their waiting cars.

If Bob had taken his therapist's advice and been fully communicative with his loved one, he would have said, _It's not_ him _I'm worried about_.

 

 

 

 

 

> ((  
>  _tri._
> 
> There isn't a whole lot in Bob's stomach to throw up, so it's mostly just a lot of gagging and heaving and spitting.
> 
> When he returns to the room, the bedsheets have shifted to accommodate a new form, one that lies facing away from him. The white sheet traces over the lines of her shoulder and waist and hip like the ridge of a snow-capped mountain range, treacherous and impassable. A new bottle of vodka sits on the table beside the balcony; it is half-empty.
> 
> She doesn't speak. Neither does Bob; he sits back down on the bed with his back to the headboard and his legs kicked out on top of the sheets, and rests the back of his head against the wall.
> 
> ))

 

 

 

 

**v.  
 _dark/cold_**

Bob waits until the last minute, hoping for a different option. Nothing comes up. Finally admitting defeat, he calls Frank. "I need to borrow your fiancee."

Jamia, thank God, shows up in a nice dress. She fusses over his sling for a bit, and bullies him into changing out of his jeans into his solitary pair of dress pants. Bob's fucking grateful enough to have her here, it's worth whatever bullshit favor Frank calls in.

The dinner's nice. Private. Brian probably went through the whole thing with them: no press, no pictures, no big celebration with extended family and friends. It's a quiet dinner at the Smith house, just them and Ross, obviously. Bob's still not clear how Ross got Brian's number - the closest thing he can get is a vague chain of telephone from Brian to Frank to somebody named Saporta, but Brian swears that it's all legit and no one's gonna go to the press with his info.

"Think they sent the staff home?" Jamia asks, her voice just a hair sarcastic as they walk up to the big white front door. Bob snorts.

One of the twin sisters answers the door. She's polite and nervous and talks only to Jamia, like they need an interpreter. The girl - Bob knows there's a trick to telling them apart, he caught it while looking through photos, but he can't remember it right now - takes them in to a pretty dining room with an actual chandelier and a cream-colored tablecloth and Spencer is there. He stands up when they walk in. Bob shakes hands with Mr. Smith, manages not to grimace when Mrs. Smith goes in for a careful hug - bad precedent - nods at Ross, and finally looks at Spencer.

Spencer stares back. The cut above his eyebrow is still vivid. Vicious. He's wearing a black Oxford shirt with the sleeves pulled all the way down over his wrists, carefully buttoned.

There's an awkward pause before Jamia saves it with, "Honey, that's one hell of a rock."

"Oh," says Jackie, blushing, and that was the trick, the one with the giant fucking diamond on her finger is Jackie. "Thank you."

"When're you getting hitched?" Jamia asks and Bob makes himself look at her instead of anywhere else.

"Next July. We were thinking - summer wedding." They make pleasant noises at each other for a bit, then Jackie looks back and forth between them. "Are you two - ?"

Jamia waves one hand, the one with the tasteful but plain diamond band. Bob could kiss her on principle alone, if Frank wouldn't telepathically sense it and firebomb his apartment. "Oh, one of these days."

Ross has been standing at the back of the group, silent. Now Bob sees him shift very slightly towards Spencer's back. Bob doesn't turn his head in that direction.

 

 

 

 

 

**x.  
 _new_**

Eventually Bob gets up. The glass Spencer threw at him had bounced off his forearm and shattered on the floor; he gets his broom and carefully sweeps up every clear shard, bending in half to get underneath the oven. Every time he bends over, his cheekbone throbs where Spencer's fist had connected. After he's swept up all the broken glass, he gets an icepack from his freezer, pressing it to the side of his face.

He sits with his elbows propped on his kitchen table, one hand going steadily numb as he cups the icepack against his cheek. Spencer's scarf and coat are still lying across the kitchen table. The Christmas cards have scattered, little white squares across his floor.

He waits.

Footsteps come back down the hall. Spencer steps inside, shutting and locking the door, then stands there for a long moment with his arms folded and his sweatpants sagging low on his hips. Bob waits, but Spencer doesn't say anything so he takes the icepack away from his face. "You need to take up a martial art."

Spencer shifts in place, putting his weight on one hip. "You saying something about my punching abilities?"

"Nothing wrong with your punch, you just need some fucking discipline."

Something flares in Spencer's eyes, white-hot and wild, but then it subsides. He looks away. "I'm taking Krav Maga."

"Don't. That one's got no rules - it's only about taking the other guy out any way you can."

"Kind of why I chose it," Spencer mutters.

"And the next time one of your little sisters pisses you off, are you gonna pop her in the face, too?" Spencer flushes but says nothing, his eyes on the floor. "Try judo. It'll give you some structure."

"Is that what you studied?"

"No," Bob says evenly, "I've got a black belt in Drunken Asshole Father."

Spencer's eyes finally rise. He stares at Bob for a long moment, then crosses the kitchen. Bob lets him take away the half-thawed icepack, and sits still as Spencer roots around in the freezer behind him.

"Do you have any painkillers?"

"Wall closet outside the bathroom. Take your pick, they're all fucking dandy." He stares straight ahead, his back straight and his arms folded in front of him on the table as Spencer pads out of the room.

He comes back with a pair of small red gelcaps in his hand, holding them out to Bob, who takes them and starts to put them in his mouth. "Wait," Spencer says and goes to the sink, pours a glass of water. He hands that over, too. "Drink all of it."

Bob tosses the pills back and tips the glass up. Once empty he puts it down on the table in front of him and takes the fresh icepack that Spencer hands over, but doesn't put it to his face.

"I'm sorry," Spencer murmurs.

"I've had worse. Pretty regularly, as a matter of fact."

Spencer leans back against the sink, his hands back in his hoodie pockets, and gnaws on his lower lip. There's a small frosted window in the wall past Bob and Spencer stares at it, his face blank and his eyes unfocused.

"So what gave me away?" Bob asks at length. He tosses the icepack down on the table.

"No pictures," Spencer answers slowly. "I noticed that the first time - but I thought maybe you just didn't like cameras."

"I don't."

"No girly products in the bathroom. If you weren't living together she'd be over here all the time and she wouldn't want to lug that stuff back and forth - but you said you weren't here very often, so I thought maybe you were over at her place instead."

"I hope you've got a coup de grâce in here somewhere..."

"Then when you fucking disappeared," Spencer grinds out, a storm growing between his eyebrows, "and I _didn't_ , okay, I figured that it'd been a mistake and you were feeling guilty about your precious fucking _fiancee_. It was _Ryan_ who called his friend Gabe for Frank Iero's number to find out where you were, and it was Ryan who called up the house and got _Jamia_ on the phone."

"Ah," says Bob.

"'Ah'? That's it? That's all I get?" Spencer rubbed a hand over his face, shook his head. "I trusted you, Bob. _Completely_. You were - you were the one thing I _could_ trust, afterward, and you fucking lied to me. You told me - you said you wouldn't hurt me and I believed you. And then you pretended to have a wife, for what, because you were worried I was going to stick my tongue down your throat again?"

"The other way around." The admission slip-slides out of Bob's mouth. A space opens up after its passing and this isn't a turn in the road, it's a crash through the guard rails into blind space. Bob swallows down the swell in his throat.

Spencer blinks. "Wait, so, you're worried about your professionalism? Is there some kind of rule in the Kidnap Retrieval Specialist handbook - "

"If there were, I fucked it up a long time ago," Bob admits quietly. His eyes are on his own knuckles, the dry webbing between his fingers.

"What does that mean. What does that even mean." It's a demand, not a question.

Bob says, "I told you I used to work personal security. I had this job in Moscow, protecting a rich American businessman and his family. Just him, the wife, and their little girl. There were two of us, me stationary on the house and this guy Markov in the car.

"I'd been with them...almost a year, when one day they go out for a drive, the whole family, and they get hit. Husband and Markov were killed on the scene, but they took the girl. They wanted three million. Problem is, some asshole cousin back in the States contested the husband's will, so she didn't actually have access to any of that money. They told us not to call the cops, so we didn't. It was just me and her and I'd never even worked a kidnapping before. They'd send us vials of blood, proof of life pictures where the girl was blindfolded and naked, letter after letter about how they were going to do this and that to her if we didn't give them the money right now. Sasha, the mom, sold everything she had. Her car, her house, her jewelry - begged off her relatives, neighbors, anyone who'd give her a penny. I gave her six thousand. It was what I had.

"So finally comes up with two million and they say they'll take it, so we transfer it to an account. And then...nothing. The truck that shows up to the drop site is empty except for some stoner who was paid to drive it there. I get enough out of him to find an address and when I go there, they're long gone and I find the girl in a cooler. See, the reason they'd had her blindfolded was that her eyes were frozen solid - they'd killed her right away and they'd been keeping her in the freezer, taking her out to thaw every time they needed a new picture.

"Sasha and I - we both went fucking nuts. I wanted to find them, I wanted to - but she didn't care. She'd watched them blow her husband's head off and then I brought her little girl home in a box. Nothing was ever going to fix that. We started fucking, mostly I think neither one of us knew what else to do. Sasha got to working her way through all the vodka in Moscow, and trust me when I tell you, there's a lot of fucking vodka in Moscow. I didn't know how to stop her. She'd get drunk and talk about dying, but we'd wind up fucking instead. I think in her mind, she was already dead. I didn't, I wasn't, but I couldn't make myself leave her. It'd been my job to protect them, and I hadn't.

"Jamia was the one who came and got me - she and Frank, but mostly her. We all went to high school together - she was always Frankie's sweetheart, we're not like that but she...sometimes she can, I don't know. She can get to me when nobody else can. They took me home, and then let me stay in their basement when home didn't turn out to be home anymore."

He runs out of words. His fingers have gone numb again. The feeling takes him back to that cold hotel room, where he and Sasha had holed up, trying to numb themselves in a whole different way. By the time Frank and Jamia had barged in, Bob had probably been close to hypothermia - they'd left the door to the balcony wide open in the face of a Russian winter - and when Frank had dragged him into the bathroom by his hair and hosed him down with the detachable shower head, that first blast of hot water had _burned_.

In the next room, Sasha's slurring voice had risen and fallen like the tide, but Jamia's had cut straight through - not unkind, but unrelenting, and Bob...Bob had closed his eyes and just gone where they'd steered him, let them take him away from that place.

"What happened to her?" Spencer's soft voice breaks in. At some point in Bob's story he'd slumped back against the sink, his arms folded. The light casts shadows under his nose and in his eye sockets.

"Don't know. I didn't want to know. When I told you before that it gets easier - I didn't mean that it gets better. You just learn to keep going until you can live with it."

Spencer is staring down at the tabletop. "Am I something you need to get away from?" he asks. The heater's rattle almost drowns him out.

"No, that's not," Bob sighs, passing his hand over his face. "That's not why. You were a good job. The bad ones, I know how to live with now, but I can't - I cannot be sane about you, Spencer."

"Who said you have to be?" Spencer asks after a minute. He moves until he's standing right beside the table, close enough that Bob has to sit back in his chair to look him in the eye.

Bob takes a slow breath. "Someone does."

That same flare of heat lights up Spencer's expression. "And that's not going to be me, huh? Because clearly I'm damaged goods."

"No," Bob shoots back, "but you are nine-fucking-teen and you've just been through - hopefully - the most traumatic experience of your life. Jesus, I'm trying to do the right thing here."

"Well, stop," Spencer says, and then he swings one leg right over Bob's thighs and sits down in his lap, straddling him. Bob sucks in a breath. His hands automatically fall on Spencer's hips to steady him then freeze there. The chair creaks. Their faces are inches apart, close enough that Bob can see a flush work its way across Spencer's cheeks. He meets Bob's eye, though, and reaches over his shoulders to lock his hands on the back of the chair.

Bob licks his lips and shivers when Spencer's eyes drop to watch. "Spencer."

"Exactly what," Spencer cuts in, his voice soft but unrelenting, "are you scared of? That you're going to hurt me, or I'm going to hurt you?"

"Both. Neither. Spencer, this is fucked up, no matter how you cut it."

Spencer tilts his head to one side, studying Bob's face. "Maybe," he admits. "But I don't think _we_ are."

"I am," Bob warns softly. He squeezes his eyes shut.

The weight in his lap shifts and then Spencer's voice is right at his ear, his breath a warm tickle. "I knew I could trust you. I was handcuffed to a bed and blindfolded - I couldn't even _see_ you and I trusted you. Bob...fucked-up or not, I wasn't wrong."

Bob wants to argue with that - he has backing evidence and bulletpoints at the ready - but right now he wants something else more. He turns his head. Spencer is smiling when they kiss, and it feels amazing against Bob's mouth, like air and warmth and a safe landing after a long fall.

"Thought about this," Spencer murmurs against his mouth. "About you. You're so fucking hot - y'know, in a mountain-man kinda way."

Bob pulls back just far enough to shoot him a look. Spencer grins at him, bright and unrepentant, fucking _grins_ and oh goddamn. "You're a little shit," Bob chokes.

"Yeah, but you like it."

Bob can't argue.

They trade slow, careful kisses that aren't near enough. Bob's pinned in place by Spencer's weight on his legs and his arms against his shoulders; he has to stretch his neck to reach Spencer's mouth and that keeps the kisses frustratingly light. Spencer doesn't seem to mind, every time they draw apart his eyes are half-hooded, watching Bob strain. "Come on, Spence," Bob mutters, tugging at Spencer's hips to get him closer.

"Stop that," Spencer says, rocking back against Bob's hands. "Let go."

"Spencer - "

"Let the fuck go. Now."

Slowly, unwillingly, Bob detaches his hands from Spencer's hips and drops them to either side. Spencer smiles again, so sweet, and lets go of the chair to wrap his arms around Bob's neck instead, finally leaning in to press their mouths together hard. Bob groans and starts to reach before he catches himself and tucks both arms behind the chair, gripping his thumb in the opposite hand.

The back of the chair digs into his shoulders. Spencer's getting into it now, pressing into Bob and slanting their mouths together. It's rough and a little unpolished - somewhere in the back of his mind where he keeps his personnel files, Bob remembers that Spencer's not a casual dater and has had all of two serious boyfriends - but still so, so good. It gets better when Spencer brings his hips into play, shifting once accidentally then again in reaction to the helpless noise that Bob makes.

Bob breaks away, breathing hard. "Shit."

"Yeah?" Spencer _undulates_ his hips against Bob's lap, grinding into him. Bob's head falls back on his shoulders. Spencer takes the opportunity to bite at his neck. Behind the chair, Bob's hands curl into fists.

Spencer takes his time, kissing and shimmying in Bob's lap and running his hands everywhere he can reach until they're both short of breath. "Spence," Bob gasps. "Spence, you gotta let me - "

"Yeah, okay," Spencer breathes, then he scrabbles at Bob's shoulders as Bob grabs onto his thighs, plants both feet, and stands up from the chair with Spencer in his arms. He stumbles a little: his legs had started to go asleep from Spencer's weight, but Bob just leans back to relocate the center of their joined gravity. His side twinges but it's an afterthought, barely more than a memory.

Spencer's legs grip tight around his hips. "Holy shit," he breathes, and when Bob tilts his head back Spencer's eyes are round.

Bob smirks then sobers. "Hey. Hey." There's a wrestling match happening behind Spencer's eyes, so after a moment Bob tilts his chin up and gently kisses the side of his mouth. "I'm pretty tired," he murmurs.

Relief wins out over annoyance and Spencer's legs loosen. Bob eases him down to the floor but keeps his hold on his hips. "So take me to bed," Spencer says, winding his fingers in Bob's hair.

They leave the heater and lights on, and Bob doesn't bother changing out of his clothes. The exhaustion wasn't just feigned to give Spencer an excuse for slowing things down, and they don't slow down that much anyway: the second he shuffles under the covers, Spencer pounces on him, grabbing Bob's wrists and pinning them above his head. Spencer's eyes are narrowed. Bob tenses. Despite the hard sock to his jaw earlier, he knows he could have Spencer pinned in a heartbeat; but he holds still. "Thought we were sleeping."

"We are. But just so we're clear, if I wake up to find that you've flown to fucking Beirut - "

"I'm not flying to Beirut."

" - I'm going to be really pissed off, and sad, and I probably won't sleep right for a fucking week."

The corner of his mouth tightens and Bob senses that he's speaking from experience. He wants to reach up and smooth away that tension, but Spencer still has a tight grip on his wrists, so Bob makes do with meeting Spencer's eye and saying carefully, "I'm sorry."

"You make me feel safe," Spencer admits flatly. He flushes again but doesn't look away. "You make things better. And I know what you said about things not _getting_ better, but that's bullshit. 'Easier' doesn't cut it, Bob."

"Okay," Bob murmurs, "okay. I'm sorry."

For a long moment Spencer studies him. Bob isn't sure what he's looking for, has never been sure, but Spencer must find it because he lets go of Bob's wrists and settles his head on his chest. Bob leaves his hands stretched above him, and tips his cheek against Spencer's hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone (Spencer) is kidnapped and held for ransom, and someone (Bob) is hired to infiltrate the kidnapping group. Of course sie can't break hir cover but sie tries to protect the kidnap victim in little ways while figuring out a way to get them both out alive. But what happens when the victim develops what appears to be a strong case of Stockholm syndrome towards hir kidnapper-cum-secret rescuer? (No, seriously, SPENCER/BOB, guys, come on!)


End file.
